


nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

by miss_frankenstein



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Fix-It, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_frankenstein/pseuds/miss_frankenstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Will you need fresh socks?”</i>
</p><p> <i>Sherlock’s voice immediately brings John back to the present.  “What?”</i></p><p> <i>Sherlock gestures irritably to the wet socks clutched in John’s hand.  “Socks,” he says again sharply because he hates repeating himself, “Will you need fresh socks?”</i></p><p>A post-S3 piece in which John and Sherlock finally confront their feelings for each other - as only they would do - in the pouring rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

**Author's Note:**

> Well, after four years of being in the BBC Sherlock fandom as a faithful and passionate Johnlock shipper, I am finally posting my first fic. For years, I have been in absolute awe of all the truly amazing work the people in this fandom produce and have thus always been too intimidated to contribute my own stuff.
> 
> This changed, though, when I was scrolling through my dash on tumblr nearly three days ago and saw that someone I follow was looking for, and I quote: “a heartwrenching fight between sherlock and john and then make them kiss passionately in the rain and make it as intense as humanly possible please.” I really liked the prompt and set about writing something for her because she's an amazing blogger and an avid Johnlock shipper, too, and that's what fandom is, isn't it? We help each other out.
> 
> So, painlock, this fic is for you. I know that we have never spoken before, but I think you are wonderful, so I really hope that you enjoy this piece and that it lives up to what you wanted. Also, I saw that it was your Birthday yesterday, so Happy Birthday! To all others who read this fic: I sincerely hope that you all enjoy it as well. I'm a bit nervous to post, as it's my very first foray into the stunning world of BBC Sherlock fanfiction, but hopefully, as John says, "It's all fine." Happy reading! (Of course, all thoughts on my writing are welcome and appreciated, so feel free to let me know!)

The roar of the pouring rain quiets to a dull yet insistent hum as John shuts the door to 221B Baker Street behind him. Shaking out his sopping head of hair, he peels off his jacket and hangs it on the hook next to Sherlock’s, the two dripping coats looking impossibly right hanging side-by-side, just as they used to.

“Christ, I’m glad it didn’t rain like this when we were chasing McInnes,” John comments as he bends down to unlace his shoes, “It would have made the rooftops pretty slick. Clearly wouldn’t have made for ideal rooftop-hopping conditions.”

John hears Sherlock chuckle at that and he glances up to catch the other man’s smile. Divesting himself of his damp shoes and socks, John looks back down to hide his grin and he shakes his head.

“I really shouldn’t be letting you up on any sort of rooftop anymore, given…” John swallows and cuts himself short, his attempt at a joke making the air go still. “Well, you know.”

Sherlock does not laugh this time and John sighs before rising, his bare feet cold and sticky. They face each other, the pair of them shivering, rain-soaked messes, and John smiles, but this time it feels forced. The mention of _that_ day and _that_ rooftop always makes something between them stop cold no matter how much time has passed since that hellish afternoon John watched Sherlock fall.           

Even still, the memory drives a sharp and momentarily incapacitating wedge of ice through John’s heart and he instantly feels cold all over.

“Will you need fresh socks?”           

Sherlock’s voice brings John back to the present. “What?”           

Sherlock gestures irritably to the wet socks clutched in John’s hand. “Socks,” he says again sharply because he hates repeating himself, “Will you need fresh socks?”           

It takes John a moment to remember that he can’t stay, that he can’t just lay his socks on the upstairs windowsill next to Sherlock’s and wait until the next morning for them to be dry again.

“I don’t think they’d make much of a difference,” John says, laughing half-heartedly, “They’ll be soaked again in no time in this weather.”           

Sherlock simply nods and looks at the floor. “Right,” he mutters, sounding a bit put-out.           

The rain sounds louder in the silence.           

“Thanks, though,” says John after a beat.              

Sherlock looks up, a smile flickering over his mouth. “Anytime,” he says lightly and John feels something in his chest catch.  He doesn’t know what it is in that one word, or in Sherlock’s voice that makes him simply ache, but he does and this room – this room full of memories of post-case laughter and smiles – suddenly feels too tight, too small, too full of ghosts.           

John clears his throat and looks away for a second to try and chase away this feeling that always seems to creep up between them when they cannot think of anything to say – this feeling of teetering on the edge of something vast and potentially all-consuming. 

Silence, more than ever, has become dangerous for them.   

“I should… probably get going, actually,” says John, gesturing to the door as he takes a step backwards, a strange feeling of disappointment spreading through him. He sees that same disappointment mirrored in the twist of Sherlock’s mouth and John attempts to soften the blow. “No point in drying off and then getting drenched all over again,” he offers as explanation.

Sherlock does not smile back. For a moment, his eyes seem to soften, but they harden almost instantly into an impenetrable glare.

“Fine,” he says, nodding tersely, “Goodnight, John.” And, with that, he turns around and begins to walk up the stairs.

“Sherlock.” His name is out of John’s mouth before he can think it through.

The man stops at the sound of his name and turns around, eyebrows arched inquisitively.

“I – uh.” John scrambles for something to say. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t stay if that’s what you’re upset about. But I really _do_ have to get home.”  John sighs. “As much as I wish it still was, this isn’t my home anymore, Sherlock.”

He doesn’t know what made him say it, but the moment the words leave his mouth John wishes that he could swallow them back up. 

“I’m well aware that you don’t live here anymore, John,” Sherlock replies coolly, a slight snarl to his mouth.  “There’s no need to remind me.” He takes a breath as if to steady himself before adding quietly, “None at all.” 

John can hear the warning behind Sherlock’s words, but he chooses to ignore it. 

“Really?” he challenges, “Because sometimes it feels like you forget.” Sherlock stiffens at this and John knows with a sickening twist in his stomach that his words have hit their mark. 

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes,” John affirms and the other man flinches almost imperceptibly at his response. “You still expect me to come whenever you call just like I used to even though I have a life of my own now. A life apart from you,” he adds unnecessarily, feeling the cruelty of his words shiver guiltily down his spine. 

Sherlock averts his gaze and his jaw tightens. He turns away suddenly as if to continue climbing the stairs, his hand gripping the bannister tightly, but his feet do not move. 

John realizes only then that the heavy breathing he can hear is not Sherlock’s, but his own. 

“And would you like me to stop?” Sherlock asks, turning his head so that John can only see his profile. “To cease interfering in your life apart from me?”

John balks. “What?”

“Would you like me,” Sherlock repeats slowly yet firmly, turning back to face John, “to stop interfering in your life apart from me?” He bores his gaze into John’s and descends a step. “Because,” Sherlock continues, descending another step, “mere moments ago, you heavily implied that you would prefer to still live _this_ life. You said that you wished you could stay here _–_ that this was still your home.”

Sherlock continues to walk down the stairs and John watches him, backed into a figurative corner. As he watches his friend come toward him, John notices the way Sherlock’s damp shirt look paper thin in this low, yellow light, the material clinging hungrily to his lithe body. John swallows against a suddenly dry throat and tries desperately not to notice anything else.

( _H_ _is shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows that bare his creamy forearms, his jet-black hair a mop of sopping curls falling into his eyes, the way his collar falls open to reveal the curve of his clavicle...)_

He fails spectacularly. 

Before he knows it, Sherlock is in front of him and expecting an answer. Perhaps it is the other man’s proximity, or perhaps it is the constant sound of the rain, but John suddenly feels a surge of courage – a liquid fire spreading through him – that has him decide to throw all of his damned caution to the wind and give voice to things he’s mercilessly shoved to the farthest corners of himself for years. 

“Of course I wish this was still my home,” John spits, hands curling into fists, “I wish every bloody day that I was waking up to the smell of you burning something in the kitchen or to the sound of you exploding something or other. Christ, I wished for that every bloody day of the two whole years you were gone. If it weren’t for those, I’d still be here. I’d still be here, Sherlock, if you hadn’t –” John turns his head away abruptly to breathe through his nose, his lips a taut line as he does so. He faces Sherlock again. “If you hadn’t gone and fucked it all up,” he continues, voice breaking, “Fucked _us_ up.”

Something shifts in Sherlock’s eyes at this. “I did this?” he demands. He struggles for composure, his hands clenching and unclenching as he inhales sharply. “John,” he breathes, his name sounding absolutely ragged on Sherlock’s tongue, “You have no idea – no idea – what those years –”

“What those years were like for you?” John interrupts, heat pooling in his cheeks, “No, I don’t. I don’t have a bloody clue because you haven’t told me. You haven’t told me anything. All I know is that you were gone and you couldn’t tell me you were alive because you thought I’d be a fucking liability –”

“You _are_ a liability!” Sherlock hisses angrily, “You are my biggest liability, John.”

His words knock the air out of John’s lungs and, for a moment, he cannot breathe.

“You bastard,” he manages to whisper at last, “How could you possibly – I have always –”

Shutting his mouth, John stares at Sherlock incredulously, his hands shaking furiously, until he can take it no longer. Huffing out a breath, he shoves his bare feet into his shoes, dropping down to tie them as quickly as he possibly can. Rising, he turns from Sherlock, stuffs his socks into his pocket, and tears his jacket from the hook on the wall. Opening the door, John dons his coat and steps over the threshold, but abruptly turns and walks back with a furious look in his eyes. He halts when he is almost chest-to-chest with Sherlock, the other man sucking in a soft gasp at the sudden proximity.

“If you’d told me,” John snarls, pointing an accusing finger at his friend, “I would have never betrayed you, Sherlock. I would have rather died than ever tell a soul a single thing about your plan. To think that you didn’t tell me because you thought I was a liability – I, who have gladly sacrificed, lied, and killed for you – hurts. It bloody hurts, Sherlock, and I lie awake at night wondering why you didn’t take me with you. Christ, I thought that we were supposed to be a team.” John sees Sherlock’s lower lip quiver, but he barrels on, words spilling from him like blood from a wound.

“It was supposed to be you and I against the world. Just like you said when you came back. But you lied to me. Not only did you leave me behind, but you made me watch you die. You made me watch _._ ” John looks up at Sherlock, gaze wretched. “And there’s a part of me that will never be able to forgive you for that. All because you thought I’d be a liability. Me _._ ” John watches Sherlock crumble under his words. He has never seen the detective look like this: grief in his eyes and etched into the lines of his face, the set of his mouth. “I would have done anything for you, followed you anywhere, and died for you a thousand times over, Sherlock. You of all people should have been able to see that. And you chose to leave me behind.”

John can feel his pulse pounding in his veins, blood thrumming hotly under his skin. Sherlock is now breathing just as heavily as John and it looks for a second that he is about to reach forward and touch John, his hand lifting from his side, but he aborts the motion and steps backward, looking away. 

“John,” he murmurs, “I had to. I couldn’t –”

It isn’t what John wants to hear. Before Sherlock can utter another word, John has slammed the door to 221B behind him and is striding down the sidewalk black and slick with water, torrential rain battering down on him. 

“John!”

Reflexively, he turns to see a coatless Sherlock pelting down the street after him. John almost continues walking, but when he sees the frantic set of Sherlock’s face, he halts and lets the other man breach the distance between them.

“What?” he demands once Sherlock stands before him, droplets of rain pouring down his anguished face, the black curls sticking to his head a stark contrast to his pale almost luminescent skin. His shirt is now nothing short of transparent and it molds to every curve of his form, making him look as if he is made of marble rather than flesh.

He takes a bracing breath. “I did what I did,” he says in a ragged, desperate voice, “to save you.” Sherlock bites his lip at this, eyes shining. He makes an urgent gesture with his hands, elbows bent at his sides yet soaking fingers outstretched and trembling. “Moriarty was going to kill you, John,” says Sherlock, “he was going to kill you and I had to give him what he wanted, so that he wouldn’t. I did it, so that you would be safe. I didn’t tell you, didn’t bring you with me, to keep you safe. For you – it was all for you.”

John has never heard Sherlock’s voice sound like this – so messy and undignified.  “I almost called, almost contacted you over a thousand times if just to hear your voice, but I knew I would be putting you in danger. And of course I knew that you would die for me, but that is precisely why I couldn’t tell you, John. Because I could never never let you do that. Especially for me.” Sherlock clutches violently at his chest, his expression fierce.  “I would die for you again in a heartbeat because I know that you will always be fine – better off, even – without me, whereas I couldn’t…” He heaves a faltering breath in an attempt at composure. “I couldn’t go on without you. I know this because you are what kept me alive those two hateful years.”

“You idiot. You bloody _idiot,_ ” John spits, looking up at Sherlock through eyes blurred with tears. “I died that day, too, Sherlock. I was not fine and I was not better off without you. I can’t believe that you could even think –”

“You moved on!” shouts Sherlock, looking nothing short of wrecked. John feels frozen in place, the rain continuing to pelt down upon them, the sound of it pummeling the pavement around them close to deafening. “You moved on,” Sherlock repeats, softer this time, his eyes looking at John with an excruciatingly soft expression. “You found Mary and you moved on. Foolishly, I thought that you might have waited. In retrospect, I cannot believe that I expected that of you... But I...” Sherlock’s voice breaks and he looks down. “I was right,” he whispers, “you _were_ fine without me and, I daresay, better off, too.”

“Better off?” John chokes out and Sherlock looks up, surprised. “Sherlock, I did wait for you. For nearly two years. I mourned for you. I had to force myself to get up each morning.” John feels a sliver of the emptiness he felt then awaken in him in remembrance and he shudders. “I was by no means fine _,_ let alone better off.  Mary happened to be the first person to make me feel anything even remotely close to happy in your absence, but I don’t – I could never –” John cuts himself off, feeling impossibly close to crossing that line that they’ve never dared to cross. “I could never be better off without you,” John finally says quietly, his voice sounding even fainter in the pouring rain. 

“Then why did you marry her?” asks Sherlock, looking at John with such intensity that he is tempted to look away. 

“Sherlock –”

“ _Why_?” he repeats, louder.

“Why?” demands John in return, taking a step forward, “What would you have done? Christ, we’ve known each other for years and you’ve never let on that you’ve ever been anything other than –”

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s abrupt declaration makes everything around John slow: the rain, the rush of cars passing, even the sound of his own breathing. He no longer feels the slap of each raindrop on his chilled flesh and he certainly no longer feels the shivers scurrying up his arms and neck. All he can hear, all he can feel is the beating of his heart – warm and full – in every every corner of his body. 

“You what?” John asks incredulously, an intense, bordering on painful joy pushing against the confines of his chest.

“I love you,” says Sherlock again, looking absolutely gutted as he does so, the words clearly a struggle for him. “I have for some time now and have refrained from acting upon it, for fear of ruining your happiness with Mary because I thought she was who you wanted.” The rain trickling down his face only serves to enhance his look of utter heartbreak. “I have told you time and again, John, that I am no hero, but I have neglected to mention that I am also a coward. I have had so many opportunities to tell you how I feel – before Mary, before the fall, before Moriarty – but I have never been able to summon the courage to do so and now I’ve lost my chance because you love –”

John’s mouth slanting over his cuts Sherlock off and he inhales sharply, face screwing up in emotion as his trembling hands immediately flutter to John’s face, each one cupping a cold cheek, thumbs brushing away droplets of rain.   

They kiss slowly, wonderingly, but with a raw and unadulterated sense of urgency, their rain-soaked lips gliding over one another with the hunger of two men starving. John’s right hand has a firm grip on the back of Sherlock’s neck, his fingers tangled in those wet curls, while his left is between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, gripping the thin material of his shirt. Their bodies are pressed together, sopping clothing a flimsy barrier between bare flesh, and Sherlock trails his fingers down John’s chest, touch gentle but insistent. John moans into Sherlock’s mouth at his touch and Sherlock responds by whimpering and pulling him even closer, fingers pressed tightly into John’s waist.

Sherlock’s tongue is cold and hesitant running along John’s bottom lip, but John stands on the tips of his toes to lean as far into the kiss as possible. When John brushes his tongue against Sherlock’s in return, he feels the detective gasp against his lips in a delicious whisper of cool air that sends a visceral thrill through John.

The feel of Sherlock’s taut body against his feels so impossibly good and John runs a slow hand down his abdomen, fingers splayed and greedy. He feels the outline of Sherlock’s ribcage, the planes of his stomach, his back, and… scars. So many scars.    

John leans his forehead into Sherlock’s to separate their mouths and look down. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, his mouth still open, and his breathing is ragged.  The sound is nothing short of intoxicating, but John is disconcerted, the feeling piercing through his blissful haze. 

“Scars,” he mutters, drawing back to get a better look, “You didn’t have those before.”

“Ah. Those,” Sherlock says softly, eyes opening slowly as he draws his hand away from John’s face, fingertips lingering ever so briefly before falling away. “In my two years tracking down Moriarty’s network I managed to acquire some battle scars of my own." He smiles wryly. "None of them, however, produced any psychosomatic results,” he adds in a quiet attempt at humour.

John smiles tightly, feeling something ugly twist in his chest as he looks at Sherlock’s body clothed in that clinging shirt that looks positively obscene right now - that body that should never be subject to anything but adoration. Swallowing against a painful lump in his throat, John looks back up and into Sherlock’s eyes, seizing a fistful of his shirt to pull the taller man close once again. 

“I love you,” he says fiercely and something beautiful happens to Sherlock's eyes when he does. John has never seen them look like that. Not ever. They melt into pools of something resembling hope and he huffs out a watery laugh, looking at John like he’s never seen anything quite like him. “I love you, Sherlock. I have from the first moment we met. I loved you before you left, I loved you when you were gone, and I love you now.”

“But Mary –”

“It’s over,” says John simply, shrugging against the force of the rain, “Everything else ends when you and I begin. That’s just how this works.”

“The baby –”

“Will have a mother and two fathers to visit.” John brings his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck once more and gently brings their foreheads together, their faces partially shielded from the rain this way. “Nothing has ever been so bloody simple,” he whispers, “You love me and I love you. There. We’ve both said it. Can’t take it back.” John nudges his face forward to touch Sherlock’s nose with his and the other man’s eyes close momentarily. “This is it, Sherlock,” John murmurs, barely able to contain his elation. “This is _it_ ,” he repeats, quiet and awed. 

Eyes fluttering open, Sherlock mirrors John’s expression, something akin to awe in his face as well.

“It is, isn’t it?” he says, bringing a hand up to John’s face once more, lithe fingers so very gentle and still so hesitant.

Leaning in for another kiss, John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s for a long moment before pulling away and running his hands up and down the detective’s arms. “Now, let’s take this inside, shall we?” he prompts, shooting a glance over Sherlock’s shoulder to 221B, “I wouldn't want you to catch a cold in all this rain.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You know that’s just a myth, Doctor,” he reproaches as condescendingly as he can through chattering teeth.

John laughs. “God, I’m glad I have a new way of shutting you up now when you become too insufferable,” he says, grinning cheekily.

“What do you –”

And John catches Sherlock’s lips with his own in an open-mouthed kiss, nipping and licking at his lush lower lip. He pulls away just as suddenly, leaving Sherlock looking thoroughly dazed – an uncharacteristic expression that makes John chuckle.

“I see,” says Sherlock thoughtfully, clearly evaluating this new information. “Well, I cannot say I am opposed to this new method of silencing me, nor can I foresee myself becoming immune to it.” 

John smiles and presses an affectionate hand to Sherlock’s face – a touch he’s wanted to administer for so long – before reaching down to take his best friend’s hand in his.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward their flat with a nod, “Let’s go home. Weather the storm in there.”

And they do.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot take any credit for the title - all of that must go to the great e.e. cummings.


End file.
